Most of the times, the reason I want to be outside of existence is because it hurts too much to be in it. Most of the times, I am just that depressed. It sucks that that is how I am lately, but I am dealing with it best I can on my own. It’s the other times where it even is even more than just a thought.

When we were young, my mom was always concerned with making an impression on others. Whatever went on inside the home, stayed inside the home. When we were out in public, we were a different family. In public, we prayed over our meals. In public, my mom was the nurturing force behind my scholastic achievements. In public, she was the same force behind my sister’s musical achievements as well. In public, she never lost her cool; if she was upset, all she had to do was give you ‘the look’ and you knew your ass was grass when you got home if you didn’t straighten up ASAP. My mother was the biggest liar I know.

I wanted to be nothing like her.

When we were young, my sisters and I would talk about growing up. We would talk about having a family and kids of our own; we would talk about how we would love those kids: everything contrary to how our parents were raising us.

My mom wasn’t the only one who abused us. And it’s funny because in reading this book and taking the little survey they have in one of the chapters, I totally forgot that my dad was abusive as well. He wasn’t very emotionally abusive–that was few and far between and usually only provoked by my mother’s bad moods– but he did beat us. He disciplined us too, but there were times when he passed the line of discipline and entered the realms of abuse.

I have always wanted to get a Golden Lab when I grew up; I wanted a dog just like Sandy. Sandy was the best Golden Lab ever. A neighbor gave her to us when she was born, and we loved her. We played with Sandy all the time; we lived out in the country where there was plenty of space to roam so a big dog like Sandy was always happy to play. She loved us too. A phenomenal dog.

One day my sisters and I were outside playing as usual and I can’t remember why we got in trouble, but we did. I think it was because we had taken this big plastic wheelbarrow that my dad had and filled it up with water to make a lil mini pool to play in. Only one person could fit in it at the time, but we could fill it with water without it tipping over because of how it was made so it only made sense to use that one. Would have made more sense not to do it all according to my dad. He started hitting us and Sandy came to the rescue. Was the only time I ever saw Sandy attack one of my parents, but in her defense, it was the first time she saw them raise a hand to us. Sandy was an outside dog and abuse stayed inside. This particular day, my dad forgot this concept and Sandy chomped into his arm. He had to fight her off him and continue the beating inside, but that was the first time someone [or in this case….an animal] had stuck up for us. We stuck up for each other, sure, but we could only do so much. We couldn’t intervene, we couldn’t beat my parents, we couldn’t do anything more than grow a voice and console each other in private.

As we got older, my sister’s ‘voice’ grew bigger than it should have and she would get the abuse more often and at a higher decibel. I had to witness my mom beat my sister with a belt made out of crushed jewels. As kids, we figured out soon enough that my mother wanted us to cry; at least, that’s what we figured anyhow: if every time she hit us only ended when we were crying enough, wouldn’t it be a logical assumption? Problem was, my sister took this knowledge and used it against my mother. She would buck back and to buck back was to take the beatings without a tear and look her dead on in her eyes like she wanted to charge her, but couldn’t [to do something so stupid would have brought on more pain than I think even she could have withstood]. So she took each hit, and each time stood straight up and looked my mom in her face. It angered my mom more and she beat her more. It helped that it hurt when I was witnessing it; it was like my mom knew how much it hurt to watch and she would hit her more, and harder. It pissed me of, but I couldn’t do anything. I gritted my teeth, I forced back the tears, but I could not DO anything for my sister. That was the night my mom left her with head-to-toe bruises. She was usually better at leaving the bruising to areas that could be covered, but she was also usually better at not using a belt comprised of crushed jewels.

I read a lot in my younger years. I think because it was a great way to escape. I could read a book a night, and it just wasn’t enough. I saved money any time I got it so I could buy books from the book club. One year I earned three or four free books just because of how many books I ordered. I read anything I could get my hands on; nothing was off-limits. I read the damn books that came with the Encyclopedia Britannica series my mom had purchased [showing my age, hahaha]. I just wanted to escape reality.

In reading so much, I learned a lot, and I got it in my head that I could be like these people. I could be a fighter, I could be a lover, I could be a friend, I could be a woman of honor. I believed I could be everything my mother wasn’t. I could be the good that seemed to not exist in my reality.

Some of the most important women in my life at the time were my grandmothers. My grandmother on my dad’s side was the most Catholic woman I have ever met. She wanted nothing more from us than to believe in God. There was a year where I tried to rebel and said I didn’t believe in God, but I did. Secretly, I always believed in God. In second grade, I got a diary for Christmas and I started to write in it. The trouble is, no one had told me how to write in a diary. So it wasn’t a ‘dear diary’ of sorts more than it was a ‘dear God’. I wrote to God in my diary and in my mind, God heard me. I believed I was writing to God.

So why did I 3 years later deny believing in him? Just to rebel [wild child I was, I know]. My mom acted like it was a big deal to her, but truthfully she didn’t care; she just put a show on for my grandma. She sent just me to church camp that summer and it was the best thing she ever did for me.

I had a blast at church camp and we had been attending the church for about a year. We attended a little while after, but as my grandmother moved further away, my parents didn’t have to keep up the show as often. Eventually, they stopped going altogether.

But I kept going. I kept learning and observing. This church family was different to me; they were nice, honest, giving, and considerate. I would get rides to and from church more often than not by people who didn’t know me personally, but we saw each other in church. I was given counsel when I needed it, a shoulder to cry on, and considered. Considered! I didn’t have to tell anyone anything, they would ask. I didn’t have to tell them I didn’t have money to attend a fun weekend church function, they would ask. I didn’t have to tell them I didn’t have a ride home, they would ask. I didn’t have to tell them I was in pain, they would ask. I didn’t have to remind them I was there. I didn’t have to remind them that I have feelings too. I didn’t have to remind them that I need a friend too. I didn’t have to remind them that I am not strong.

I am not strong. One of the traits of my astrological sign is hypersensitivity even. My mom knew this trait about myself better than anyone. She could hurt me like no one else because she knew the mental hurt worse than the physical for me and my sister. Constantly told we were the reason they had no friends, we were the reason for their financial difficulties [which couldn’t have been all that fucking bad considering we moved so damn much, had an ass-load of antiques cause my mom couldn’t stop buying them, and had the latest and greatest of anything my mom thought we should have, but she always wanted MORE], and we were the reason we got abused. We were bad kids. We deserved to beat. Beat with anything close even; didn’t have to be a belt, a hand would never do, and a belt was not always readily available.

She could hurt me on the mental level because she knew me. That’s what sucks about life sometimes; you let people know exactly how they can hurt you, but you don’t think they will because they love you. And yet they do. Why? I have never understood this about life. Of all the crap I had to endure and witness and know about as far as other people’s crappy lives, I have never understood why someone who claims to care about you could set out with the intent to hurt you.

Yet I still tried to show her I loved her. I still tried to make her feel ok. My mom was always on the heavier side, but she wore it fine; it just would get to her from time to time and kids sense shit man. We all remember being a kid, right? Don’t you remember being able to sense shit like that? I do. And I did everything in my power sometimes to make us feel like a normal family. I just wanted everyone to be happy. And ok. And it stay that way.

We hardly were, shit was not ok, and it never stayed settled for very long. In 7th grade my mom started taking us to a psychiatrist. Well, me and my sister that is; my adopted brother and sister didn’t have to go for whatever reason, but me and my sister were there weekly. We hated going; the doc didn’t ‘understand’ us. I don’t know how the doc was operating actually now that I think about it because it just didn’t make sense. He said my sister and I were depressed, but I didn’t feel depressed. I FELT fine; I just didn’t want to be there. One time my sister and I got to have a joint session with the doc and we were doing as we do and playing off each other–having a good time between us because that is just how we were. The doc commented that we must be getting better because we appeared happier, and from that point on my sister and I dubbed him ‘Doctor Quacks-a-lot’. See, we thought him to be a fake [ergo a ‘quack’] after that and the name only seemed suitable.

It wasn’t until 3 years later when I was bleeding at the head that that doc told me that my mom suffered from schizophrenia.

I grew up being lied to, used, beaten, and forgotten about. I saw the evil that was my mom and I wanted no part of it. I wanted to be someone worthy to be loved. When I was a kid, I still had problems telling a lie; I never quite mastered it like my sister, but I didn’t have a problem lying to my mom. It was a matter of survival. I didn’t have a problem lying to anyone in the family except my sisters. My sisters were the only ones who knew and understood our life; they knew better what was lie and truth. My sister became a master liar early on; one thing my mother never figured out was that if she asked me, she could get the truth out of me [and even moreso if she got my granny to ask me cuz I just could not look her in the eyes if I was], but I got to witness my sister tell a bald-faced lie over and over again. I never corrected anything because she was doing as we all were: surviving.

So I am someone who values truth, honor, loyalty, love, relationships, and everything that seems to mean nothing to anyone anymore. Or maybe it is just that I don’t seem to find the people of like minds. In 2012, I hope to be a better person than I was, meet new [true] friends, and be in a better place mentally than I am now because right now I want nothing more than to be outside of existence. But I fight my demons. It’s just hard alone. It’s hard when friends are supposed to be there for you and be a shoulder to cry on but they are the very ones pushing you further into the abyss. It is hard when your sister by DNA won’t take the new year to be a better person and actually talk. It is hard when your sister was your best friend and now she doesn’t seem to care. It is hard when your other sister only seems to talk to you when she needs something. It is hard when your friends are only around when they need something. It is hard when everyone wants to know when they are going to get theirs, but never once ask me if I need anything, or think about how to make my day better, or cheer me up, or make everything okay for me. It is hard when you care about people who could give a shit less about you. It is hard because because of that all, I have to do it alone.